


Greeting Card Sentiments

by somewhereelse



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 19:57:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15493521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somewhereelse/pseuds/somewhereelse
Summary: Five times Oliver and Felicity take care of each other, and one time someone takes care of them.





	Greeting Card Sentiments

**Author's Note:**

> Here, have some fluff I found in my drafts. Title because number four is a greeting card I saw once.
> 
> (I was on a Europe trip with friends, and we were randomly adopted by local shopkeepers. The woman was telling us about how she met her partner. When they first met, he arrogantly declared, “You’re going to be mine,” and her response was a well deserved, “Who the fuck do you think you are?” And as she explained how he won her—an independent single mother who speaks six languages—over, she used a turn of phrase that struck me. 
> 
> It’s not the things that cost money. It’s the things that cost attention.
> 
> So here we go.)

“Uh, Felicity?”

“Yeah?” she mumbled back around the pen lodged between her teeth. Felicity needed to review the financial reports for the investor meeting they were headed to so she’d let Curtis take the wheel of her precious new sedan. The idea of a coupe had been nixed once William became a permanent part of her life, and the stupidly tall men in her life certainly appreciated her forfeiting compact cars.

“Have you been developing a forever clean windshield, and can I have one?”

That got her attention. She looked up in confusion and watched the blades swipe across the glass one way then back. “What are you talking about?”

“Your windshield,” he lifted a hand from the steering wheel to gesture at it, “I’ve never seen it really streaky or dirty. And we live in Star City.”

Curtis’ point was that it’s _always_ drizzling, if not raining, here. Coming from the desert and then Boston where at least summers were nice, Felicity initially had a hard adjustment to the gloom. She’d particularly struggled with maintaining her footwear and seeing out of her windshield. But now that she thought about it, one day, the glass had gone from perpetually water spotted and/or filthy to near spotless no matter what punishment she put it through. She was shocked that it had kind of escaped her notice before.

“Must be the wiper fluid?” she offered, and Curtis shrugged in agreement. Then again, she couldn’t remember the last time she refilled that and she was more than a little trigger happy with it. Maybe her oil change service deserved more credit than she gave them.

Later that night, she spied Oliver retrieving a rag and a spray bottle from under the kitchen sink. Instead of heading for the dining table as she expected, he slipped out the front door. Some minutes later he returned with an empty bottle of antifreeze wiper fluid to deposit in the recycling bin.

That’s right. 

She hadn't worried about her car’s visibility since becoming Oliver’s Girl Wednesday.

 

* * *

 

“Dad, we need to talk. I have to ask you a question.”

Only his impeccable reflexes kept him from driving them off the road. After a steadying moment, Oliver risked a glance at William, his brow furrowed in seriousness. “Uh, sure thing, buddy. If it’s, ah”—he fumbled for a delicate way to phrase it—“about _girls_ , can it wait until we’re home? I'm sure Felicity wants to hear about it, too.”

A snort from the backseat interrupted William’s response. John was stretched out comfortably in the SUV’s spacious middle row and listening with feigned casualness. And, yes, he did take every opportunity to _not_ be (Mayor) Oliver Queen's black driver. “You want Felicity— _our_ Felicity—to give Will here the sex talk? Yeah, that doesn’t have disaster written all over it.”

Curious, William twisted around in his seat. “Wait, what?” Ever since they met, William had taken a shine to Felicity, thankfully not attaching his earlier conflicting feelings about his mom, his dad, and the whole mess to her. Apparently, the idea that she was fallible was intriguing to him.

John clapped his hands together and leaned forward eagerly, ready to engage in a little storytelling. “You see, Will, my man. Before Felicity became the competent badass we all know her to be, she was a little rougher around the edges. Had even more trouble keeping all those thoughts on the inside and not voicing them to the outside. Occasionally, she’d say things in the worst way, usually somehow involving sex.”

“Like what?”

Catching Oliver’s warning look in the rearview mirror, he decided to disengage. “Ask me again in a few months, once her step-parent role has really cemented. Then you won’t even want to know.”

Before William could press him further, Dig redirected to Oliver. “And you. Don’t you think that when someone signs onto the step-parent gig, that gives them a free pass on the sex talk with the step-kid?”

“Wait, what?” Oliver unconsciously echoed William’s earlier question.

Next to him, William just shrugged. “Yeah, that seems fair.”

“Oh,” he frowned, considering. Oliver could see how that would be a fair division of labor for a _different_ couple, but— “Felicity’s going to be so disappointed. She even made a slideshow.”

“Wait, _what_?!” This time, the incredulous question came from both passengers. John and William shared a commiserating look.

“Well, it turns out the sex talk is where Donna excelled as a parent, and you know how Felicity is about education and informed decisions. Plus, you’re my kid so there are apparently some _specific_ topics she really wants to cover.”

Both of them just gaped at him for a long moment as he shifted uncomfortably in the driver's seat. “William, is that what you wanted—”

“No! I just wanted to tell you that this music sucks. Can we _please_ listen to something else?”

“It's not that bad,” Oliver immediately countered in a grumble.

John scoffed, “Not even your mini me wants to listen to your terrible, generic 2000s emo pop-rock. Change it, man.”

“Felicity likes it,” he tried as a last ditch defense once he realized they were ganging up on him, “She made this playlist for me, turns it on whenever we’re in the car together.”

“Felicity is your _wife_ ,” John sharply reminded him, rolling his eyes when Oliver grinned at the title. “She has to put up with your shitty taste in music but even she named the damn playlist “The Lesser of the Evils Is Still Evil.” Give it up. You’re outnumbered, man. We already know Thea makes fun of you for it.”

Oliver put up only token resistance as William switched to the radio and found a station that didn’t make John want to throw himself out of a moving vehicle.

 

* * *

 

“Seriously, how many times did you watch _Hitch_?”

Oliver grunted, more than slightly perturbed at having his intended destination foiled. After asking her question he didn’t understand, Felicity pulled away, and he felt her drop back on her heels to wait for his answer. He exhaled deeply and reluctantly slid open his eyes.

“Watch what?”

“The movie _Hitch_. You know, Will Smith as a charming but kind of creepy dating coach teaching Kevin James how to neg women.”

“I don’t neg women,” Oliver immediately responded. “ _You_ , I mean,” he corrected, frown deepening. “Wait, do I? Because I’m not trying to, I swear. I wouldn’t use a line on you, and you’re perfect so...”

“No. If anything, you’re overly complimentary. See Exhibit A,” Felicity just rolled her eyes at him. “But that’s not the part of the movie I’m talking about. Ninety-ten rule. You seem to be a very firm believer.”

Oliver wracked his brain for a few moments, trying to remember the movie and why the reference was so important Felicity paused a very promising make out session. They didn’t have a lot of time left before the team showed up, and he wanted to make the most of it, not talk movies. But Felicity took her pop culture seriously, and he doubted he’d get out of it easily.

He remembered _Hitch_ as pre-island because he and Tommy used to joke about how they had more game than Will Smith. Obviously, he never saw the thing in its entirety but he vaguely recalled the plot from replays on weekend cable TV. Felicity almost always stopped for Will Smith while channel surfing. He must have taken too long to respond because she shifted restlessly in his hold.

Then she was on her tiptoes, lips hovering millimeters over his.

“Ninety-ten rule. You go ninety percent and let the woman, or guy I guess, go the last ten.”

Oliver was too distracted by Felicity about to kiss him to realize it was a demonstration and she wasn’t about to kiss him at all. When it registered, he grumbled discontentedly again, ignoring her amused grin.

“I just never want to make the choice for you, you know?” he shrugged. “If we’re going to kiss, it’ll be because we both want to.”

To his surprise, Felicity pulled a face. “Ugh, god. _God_. You be less perfect. Damn it.”

Oliver didn’t hide his grin but leaned in close, hovering once again. This time, Felicity didn’t interrupt but grabbed his face with both hands and solidly planted one on him.

 

* * *

 

“I’m so glad my heart can’t talk. If it could, it would never stop babbling about how amazing you are. And that would be weird because there’d be this little voice coming out of my chest all the time. I’d have to be, like, “Okay, heart, I get it. He’s totally incredible and wonderful in every way, but could you please just keep it down? Everyone is staring at me!” And my heart would be, like, “Sorry, dude, I can’t. He’s just that amazing.” ”

“What? What is going on? Are you high? Drunk? Psychotic break?”

“You think the only way I’ll tell you “I love you” is if I’m abusing drugs and/or alcohol or having a mental breakdown?”

“Well, no. But you usually don’t pretend your body parts are separate entities that can talk.”

“Hmm. That’s an interesting question.  _Can_ you anthropomorphize body parts? I mean, usually it involves cute little animals or appliances, and human body parts are by their nature already _anthro_ , so to speak.”

“Are you really telling me there’s a category of cute little appliances that people pretend can talk?”

“Clearly, you’ve never seen _The Brave Little Toaster_. That movie was the entire reason I tried to convince my mom to buy an electric blanket. In _Vegas_. What were we talking about?”

“Your heart. Talking.”

“Right. Can you imagine? As if my brain to mouth filter isn’t dysfunctional 99% of the time. My heart getting free rein over my oral skills—shut up—would be unmitigated embarrassment.”

“Why would telling me you love me be embarrassing?”

“Oh, it wouldn’t be the sentiment. It would be the volume and the nonstop-ness and the excessive praise. Excessive is a relative term, of course. It would be excessive to other people, not me. Well, maybe. Like it’s ridiculous to congratulate you for sending a text instead of an email, but I kind of want to sometimes?”

“So what do you call this?”

“I realized that I don’t tell you how amazing you are enough. You’re very good at slipping in the “You’re remarkable”s and “You’re the one who lights my way”s all smooth-like. Like, all “Hey, baby—”

“Hey! Those are sincere compliments.”

“I’m sure they are, hon. I’m just saying I mainly just babble inappropriately about your abs, or the salmon ladder, or your abs _and_ the salmon ladder. So I thought I’d let you know that my heart is full to bursting with love for you, and if I were at all eloquent or well-spoken or what have you outside of life-or-death situations requiring fortuitous deployment of motivational speeches, I’d be telling you all the time how incredible and wonderful and amazing you are.”

“You _do_ tell me that. Pretty regularly actually.”

“I do? Wait, when? How often?”

“Whenever I get your brain offline, and your heart gets free rein over your oral skills.”

“Huh? Oh. Oh!”

“ _Yeah_.”

“Why have you never told me that I _talk_ after I—we—”

“I make you come so hard you nearly blackout?”

“Oliver!”

“To be fair, I didn't know you didn't know. You just get very cuddly and... complimentary before you fall asleep.”

“I fall asleep!? Who am I? An eighteen-year-old frat boy? God, I might as well be a one pump chump.”

“This conversation has really gone off the rails. As a former eighteen-year-old frat boy, I can assure you that our sex life is absolutely nothing like that.”

“You mean that in a _good_ way, right?”

“I mean that in an incredible and wonderful and amazing way.”

 

* * *

 

With increasingly frustrated movements, Oliver searched through his stash of trick arrows. He could feel John’s eyes on his back, just short of laughing at his grouchy mood. They’d come a long way from his anger being able to scare off the other man.

He felt about a second away from completely wrecking the display when Felicity tapped him on the shoulder. Without a word, she extended the arrow he’d been looking for. Almost magically, the tension drained out of his shoulders, and he took it from her with a sigh.

“Have you seen my—”

He gestured to her desk. “I plugged your phone in since it was getting low.”

Felicity smiled in thanks, and he automatically leaned down to press a short kiss to her lips.

This time, John’s amusement was audible in the form of an exasperated scoff.

 

* * *

 

Felicity awoke to the smell of coffee. She flopped onto her other side and half-landed on Oliver, her husband letting out a disgruntled grunt. With a confused apology, she pushed off him before he dragged her closer again.

“Aren’t you— Who made the— What time is it?” Finally, she managed a fully formed question as Oliver crunched up to peer at the alarm clock.

“Shit,” he muttered, rolling out from under her, “It’s almost seven.” They must have forgotten to set the alarm before falling asleep after a long night in the bunker.

Felicity muttered her own curse and followed after him to stumble into her own clothes. She was one step behind Oliver in the hallway when he stopped suddenly, causing her to crash into his back. He steadied her by reaching a hand back to her hip. Said hand maybe quickly copped a feel of her ass before releasing her.

“Morning, guys,” William’s cheery voice rang out.

She peeked over his shoulder to find the teenager standing at the range, spatula in hand.

“Coffee’s ready,” he continued, raising his own mug for a drink, “Eggs will be another minute.”

Mutely, she took a seat at the counter while Oliver fixed their coffee. He joined her at the counter where they both stared at the teenager like he was an alien from another universe.

William hummed a little as he moved the eggs around. With a glance over his shoulder, he smirked at what had to be two gobsmacked adults. “I heard you guys stumbling in late last night. Figured I should get myself up this morning and take care of breakfast.”

Oliver breathed a chuckle, the ones he used to reserve for her before his son came into their lives.

Simultaneously, they responded with, “I love you.”

 


End file.
